I mark not seasons by the calendar;
My lady's birthdays measure time to me;
In spite of Julius or of Gregory,
My year begins and ends itself in her.
Surely in this my reckoning cannot err;
Nature's new year the opening spring must be;
For so says every herb and flower and tree
That breaks from slumber, and begins to stir.
So said my lady, when her wondrous birth
Forestalled the springtime by her sovereign grace,
And bloomed a rose in winter's hoary face.
Since then I hold no calendar of worth
Save Love's; too long Emperor's and Pope's had place
Among the other errors of our earth.